ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (24 page)

Twenty minutes later, Zac, who’d
dozed off, awoke with a start at a slight blow from the butt-end of a gun.
Blinking rapidly, he could see the silhouette of the man yanking Jackson from
the van.

“You. Get out.” The man who’d
ridden with them in the back called to Zac, adding, “He’s a snorer.”

Zac was about to protest that he’d
never snored a day in his life, when the man motioned with the gun and said,
“We don’t
got
all day.”

The moon through the clouds
provided just enough light for Zac to see. They were near the Ocean, that much
was certain. It sparkled in the moonlight and made lapping sounds as waves hit
the shore. Directly in front of them was some kind of planking leading out over
water. Suddenly he realized what it was; they were parked beside a pier.

Alarm bells tolled inside as he
began to understand what their captors planned: They were being taken out of
the country. He panicked. What if they ended up in Eastern Europe or, hell, he
didn’t know. Russia? Iran? He grabbed Jackson’s arm and said, “Let’s go.” They
had only gone about ten steps when the brutish man who’d driven the van knocked
him out with a single punch.

“Time to
get up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Zac
blinked awake. His head ached, his mind was so jumbled he couldn’t make sense
of anything.
Where was he?
He remembered going to Belize with Jackson in
a trunk and rescuing Izzie. But something had gone terribly wrong. Oh yeah, now
he remembered. Charlie, his good friend, had ratted them out and Mo sold them
to a couple of thugs.

A motor
revved; there was a rocking motion. He must be on a boat. His heart sank. Was
Jackson all right or had his efforts earned him yet another beating? Someone
shook him. He didn’t want to open his eyes; didn’t want to know what was in
store.

“Zac.
Zac. Wake up.” Someone imitating Jackson slapped his cheeks. “C’mon, bro,” the
voice pleaded.

That’s
when the heavens opened along with Zac’s eyes. The tableau in front of him was
something from a dream. Peering down at him was his brother—not an impostor,
but his very own flesh and blood, pain-in-the-ass sibling. And next to him
wearing a worried, almost maternal expression, stood Izzie.
Izzie?
Now
he
knew
he was hallucinating.

Zac
rubbed his aching head and tried to sit up. “What the…” He couldn’t make sense
of it: First they’re betrayed by that son of a bitch Charlie; then they’re held
in chains and sold off as slaves. He’s decked when he tries to escape. And now?
Had the guy at the resort decided Izzie was too much trouble and sold her to
these bozos? Were all three of them headed to some foreign country? If so, why
did Jackson and Izzie look so happy?

“Zac,
it’s okay.” His brother sounded confident, reassuring. Unusual for him. He was
a worrier, always thinking about consequences. Zac was the one who flew by the
seat of his pants, getting in trouble.
Please God, let it be true. Let this
nightmare finally be over.

And there
it was. Izzie and Jackson, eyes brimming with tears, bending over him, hugging
him, laughing.

“We did
it.” Jackson said and gave Izzie a look that said you’re more than just my
reporter. Much more.

At last
Zac found his voice. “You mind telling me what the hell’s going on?” He
flinched, expecting to be on the receiving end of yet another blow.

“We’re on
the Bessie Rose,” Jackson said and sat down next to him. "Charlie’s taking
us to Mexico to get help.”

“Seriously?
Charlie? The rat who sold us out is helping us now?” Zac’s eyes bulged in
disbelief. “And you believe him? After what he did?” He lunged from the bed,
his hands curled into tight fists. “Where's that son of a bitch anyway?”
Glancing around he realized they were in what had previously been his
stateroom.

“He’s
upstairs…uh, you know, piloting the boat.” Jackson stumbled for the correct
nautical term.

“And you
believed him when he said he’s rescuing us?”

“Yes, he
risked his neck to get us out.”

“You
sure? He's the whole reason Mo got his clutches on us and Izzie taken back to
that whorehouse resort. Those guys beat me up pretty good too.”

“Not that
you deserved it.”

When Zac
gave him a look, Jackson added, “I’m just
sayin
’.
Charlie said it was all a ruse to get us out of Ambergris without raising
suspicions. The men who bought us from Mo think he’s a trafficker and that he’s
delivering us to a buyer in Guatemala.”

“And
Izzie?”

She’d
been uncharacteristically quiet. “Charlie didn’t take me to the resort. He
brought me here.  We’ve been waiting for you guys. He said we had to get
out before they discover I'm gone.”

For
probably the first time in his life, Zac was speechless. Finally he said,
“Well, I’ll be damned. And to think you nearly broke his nose.”

Jackson
laughed. “Yeah, I did that, didn’t I? Thank God he doesn’t hold grudges.”

As the
three found their way to the pilothouse, Zac wondered where Charlie was taking
them and how they’d ever find their way home.

"There
you are," Charlie's voice boomed as they approached. He looked at Zac,
"You don't look too much worse for the wear—considering."

"Says
you," Zac growled. Jackson poked him in the back. "So I was
wrong."

"Wrong?"
Charlie gave him a puzzled look. "Wrong about what?"

"About
you. I thought you'd sold us to those traffickers."

"I
did. In case you didn't notice, Mo had you in chains, or so I've been
told." He laughed, then winced and touched his swollen nose. "At
least
you
didn't try to break my nose."

At that,
all eyes turned to Jackson. "Oh yeah, sorry about that."

"No,
that’s all right. It made things more believable to anyone who happened to have
been watching." 

"So,
I take it you're one of the good guys," Zac said. "And Captain
Tom?"

"What
about him?"

"He
cool with you taking his precious yacht for a spin in the middle of the
night?"

Charlie's
eyes went back to the wheel. He mumbled, "I borrowed it. He doesn't
know."

"Wait,
what?" To this point Zac had been feeling, if not good, at least less
panicked. Now the adrenalin of fear snaked its way up his spine again.
"You stole his boat?"

"Calm
down, Zac. He's out
doin
' some babe and getting
loaded. By the time he sobers up, you'll be safe in Chetumal and the
yacht'll
be back in its slip. He won't be any the
wiser."

"Chetumal?
What's that?"

"A
port on the Yucatin Peninsula." To Zac's unspoken question, he added,
"It's about seven hours from here. A friend of mine’ll be waiting and will
take you to the American consulate in Cancun."

He
sounded so positive everything was going to work out that Zac relaxed in spite
of himself. "Okay, then," he said and reaching out, he shook
Charlie’s hand. "Dude, thanks. We were in a shitload of trouble. If you
hadn't stepped in, I don't even want to think of what might have
happened."

"No
problem," Charlie said. "Look, why don't you guys fix yourselves
something to eat and get some sleep. You have a long night ahead of you even
after we get to Mexico."

Heading
to the well-stocked galley, the trio didn't have to be told twice. 

Leon
leaned over and rested his head on his arms. The cool metal of the table was
somehow soothing.

For the
past few hours detectives had grilled him nonstop: Who’s running the show? How
many are involved? C’mon man, you’re not smart enough to organize something
like this on your own. Give it up and it’ll go easier on you.

What
should he do? On the one hand, Seymour had been good to him—well, in his own
way he had—except for the threats and occasional punches to the gut when
something went wrong. But for the most part, he’d let Leon run the show on his
own.

On the
other hand, the man’s head was swollen to the point it resembled one of them
oversized balloons. He acted as if he was too good for Leon. Sure he’d managed
to rise to the top of the outfit and had more money than God had dirt, but
still. Leon remembered when they were both gangbangers scraping and bowing to
whoever was in power at the moment.

Look at
it this way, if Seymour was in his place, would he protect Leon?
Hell no.
He’d give Leon up in a moment’s notice. So why should Leon spend more time in
the slammer to protect
him
? Then there was retaliation. Seymour had
driven home the point that if Leon
ever
gave him up to the cops, his
life wouldn’t be worth shit.

Leon
started at the sound of the door opening. It was decision time. They weren’t
going to dick around with him much longer.
What’s it going to be?
Protect Seymour and do more time or give him up and look over his shoulder the
rest of his life?  

“Okay,
dirtbag
, I’ve had just about enough. Start talking.”

Leon
could see by the expression on the detective’s face that he meant business. At
that moment, he made what may have been the smartest decision of his life. He
said, “I want a lawyer.”

After
several glasses of cheap wine Zac drifted off to sleep. For the past
twenty-four hours he’d been running on pure adrenalin, so when it came to
grabbing forty winks he’d found it impossible to slow down. The hum of the
boat’s engine and a slight rocking motion along with the alcohol finally did
the trick.

He dreamt
he was back home in Iowa running wild with some buddies. His dad was alive and
raising holy hell as his mother, with a pained expression, looked on. For the
first time, he was about to stand up to his father and take the consequences,
when he was awakened by a jolt which tossed him off the bed and onto the floor.

“What was
that?” he said and snapped on the lights.

“We hit
something?” Jackson said, sitting up.

Zac shrugged, dragging himself from
the floor. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe old Charlie fell asleep at the wheel.
You guys go back to sleep while I check. If anything’s wrong, I’ll let you
know.” Despite his companions’ doubtful expressions, they settled down as Zac
turned out the light and left the room.

What he found topside was something
from a bad movie. Two men had boarded the yacht and were having a heated
exchange with Charlie. Zac stayed as far back in the shadows as he could, while
still managing to hear snatches of the conversation.

“No, he didn’t,” the first man
said. “He’s the one who reported the Bessie Rose stolen.”

“We’re taking you back to Belize to
get this sorted out. Who else is onboard?”

Alarmed, Zac turned to alert his
friends—maybe they could hide and somehow go undetected while Charlie got out
of this mess. If they towed the yacht back to Ambergris, it was possible they could
sneak off the boat and find another way off the island. That was the plan, but
like most everything else it fell short when a light came on, and he was
discovered on his way back to the stateroom.

“Stop where you are.” The man had
some kind of nautical uniform on and pointed a gun at him. Zac knew better than
to ignore him.

“Yes? Who are you? What’re you
doing onboard Captain Tom’s yacht?” Zac said, figuring a strong offense might
do the trick. He was wrong.

“I’ll ask the questions. Sit down.”
The man inclined his gun toward the galley table and chairs. “Who else is
onboard?”

Zac started to say no one, when his
stupid-ass brother stuck his head out of the stateroom and said, “What’s going
on?”

That did it. The officer ordered
Jackson from the room and pulled the door back to find Izzie sitting up in bed
with a puzzled look.

“Get out here and sit next to your
friend over there.”

Izzie did as she was told, asking
Zac with her eyes what in the name of all that was good and holy was going on.

“This yacht was reported stolen by
the owner, despite the fact your buddy claims he ‘borrowed’ it and was taking a
few friends for a joy ride. Know anything about that?”

Zac spoke up. “Yes, that’s exactly
what happened. Charlie’s a friend of ours and wanted to take the two lovers
here on a romantic moonlight ride before we return to the states.”

“Seriously?” The officer gave the
bedraggled group a long, hard look. “You don’t look much like tourists to me—or
lovers for that matter.” When no one said anything, he added, “This is what
we’re going to do.”

Detective Anders was incredulous.
He looked from Leon to his lawyer and back again. “You telling me the guy
running for mayor of Chicago is the brains behind this whole operation? That he
calls the shots?”

“That’s exactly what I’m
sayin
’. Remember you promised if I gave him up you’d put me
in witness protection … that’s what you said.” Leon looked from the detective
to the lawyer. An onlooker might think he resembled a child begging his parents
to keep a promise. “Isn’t that what he said?” He nudged his lawyer.

“That’s what he said all right,”
the lawyer agreed. “We have it in writing.” He waved a sheet of paper like a
flag of surrender.

“All right, all right, who’s saying
any different?” At first the detective seemed to be at a loss for words then
came back to himself. “Okay, tell me the whole story. If it checks out, and I
can be sure you’re not lying then we’ll talk about witness protection. Right
now all I’ve got is your cockamamie story about how you’re not to blame for all
the crimes you committed, that some hotshot in Chicago’s the real perpetrator.
We’ve got to have more than your say-so. You understand?”

Leon understood only too well that
he was in over his head. Seymour had been careful to cover his tracks, to leave
no evidence of his involvement in the operation. He’d limited his contact with
Leon, and even then made calls from throw-away cellphones. The few times Leon
called him Seymour had pitched a fit, reminding him that he was never,
ever
to contact him at home. They had a go-between who passed messages back and
forth, and even then it was rare.

Leon had enjoyed the limited
contact with his boss—thought it showed he was trusted, on his way to the top.
Now the full impact of that so-called “trust” came crashing down like a hunk of
loose cement from a skyscraper. Seymour had set it up so if the operation was
exposed, Leon would bear the full brunt of the blame. And Seymour? He’d gotten
rich off the sales of the newly enslaved, but had no real skin in the game.

What a fool he’d been.
How
could Leon
ever
prove Seymour Cottingham, the rich white guy from
Chicago’s ritzy North Shore was up to his neck in the trafficking of human
beings?

For a few minutes there was no
sound in the grungy interview room. Leon stared at the wall, noting a place
where someone left an imprint of their shoe in the sheetrock. That’s what he
felt like doing: letting go with some punches or kicks to relieve the growing
panic inside. He was facing hard time.

And Seymour? He’d get off and find
another sucker to continue his moneymaking. Wasn’t that always the way it went?
Guys like him were the mules who carried the heavy burdens for little or no
reward, while the “
brainiacs
” at the top got off with
a slap on the wrist—if that. Well, not this time. He’d find a way to prove to
that detective—and his own lawyer—he was telling the truth. He was merely a
flunky carrying out orders and deserved to be set free.

And if that happened, Leon would
start over. Find a girl like Izzie and settle down. He saw Izzie’s beautiful
face in his mind’s eye. They’d had a good thing going. If only he’d walked away
from the whole mess right then, maybe he’d be with her enjoying the beach
instead of sweating it out in a police station and fighting for his freedom.
When would he ever learn?